by W. R. Benton
“Ten minutes, understand?”
“Yes, sir.” He then moved to the first truck.
“Strip the dead of anything we can use.” I ordered as I looked at the damage my troops had done to the trucks. A few stray rounds had struck the cargo areas, but a good 90% of the shots were in the cabs. Silverwolf walked to me and said, “I have a couriers pouch from the dead motorcyclist and maybe Scott can make heads or tails out of this stuff.”
“Bring it with you and Scott can read it to the Colonel, because I'm sending him back later with some other intelligence paperwork. I don't think he's cut out to be a field soldier and besides, his language skills are needed more at headquarters. There is more to being a soldier than hating our enemy.”
Crates were being unloaded as Scott walked to me and said, “Most of these crates are shoulder fired missiles. There are cases and cases of the 9K32 Strela-2M missiles or as the Russians call them Arrows. All I know about them is; they are a portable, shoulder-fired, low-altitude surface-to-air missile system with a high explosive warhead. I think they have an infrared guidance system of some sort, but they should each come with information on them. Most of the boxes are simply marked, 9K32 Strela-2M Arrow.”
“I don't care about anything else now, but we must have the missiles. Can the truck that remained upright be driven?”
Walsh replied, “I was an auto mechanic for a few years, let me check it out and see.”
“Hurry, because I suspect if the Russians were notified by radio from one of these trucks, we'll soon have Black Shark Helicopters overhead. I want to be a long way from here before choppers arrive.”
I heard the engine grinding, prayed it would start, because we could raise real hell with surface to air missiles. Start, damn you, start, I thought.
The engine gave a loud backfire and the engine started.
“Load all the crates into the truck and let's move, and now!” I yelled, happy the truck would at least take the heavy load part of the way.
“Better hurry too, the radiator is leaking a bit and I'm not sure how many miles I can get out of this thing before the engine quits!” Walsh said.
Five minutes later, we were bouncing over a rough field moving toward a tree line. I wanted to get as close to Colonel Lee as I could, without compromising his location. I'd already sent Silverwolf ahead on the Russian motorcycle to inform the Colonel of our discovery, asking him to send more men to move the missiles away from the truck.
We'd just entered the trees when I heard a chopper fly over us, then two more, obviously moving toward the ambush sight. I couldn't see what kind of birds they were, but the whop-whop-whop of the blades told me they were helicopters. We were now on a badly rutted logging road and while the ride was rough, I smiled. Missiles; we can start downing choppers now and do the job right. If the missiles did have an infrared guidance system we might even be able to take out a low-altitude jet or two, I thought and it filled me with excitement.
“The temperature gauge is going up, so the radiator is hot.” Walsh said.
“If we had some duct tape, we could fix it.” Sandra said and then added, “It's the redneck in me, because you can fix anything with duct tape.” She then laughed.
We all laughed and then Walsh said, “There's stream about a quarter mile from here. We'll stop and I'll top off the radiator with water. That should allow us to get a few more miles out of this thing before the engine seizes on me.”
“Try to park under the trees, if you can. I know the tracks of this thing can been seen clearly from the air. The trees shield us well, but on a field we leave a trail even a child could follow even from the air. And, Walsh?”
“Sir?”
“I think your effort today earns you the rank of Sergeant, effective right now. These missiles are extremely important to the resistance and will hurt the Russians dearly.”
“I just got lucky and knew how check a few things, and can drive this truck. Not many can drive them due to the frequent gear shifting that's required. Hell, most folks these days, or just before the fall, couldn't drive a stick shift to start with.”
“Steam is coming from under the hood now.” Sandra pointed out.
“She's hot, see the gauge? But I see the stream in front of us, so I'll pull over under those are pines and oaks.”
“Good. We need a few miles more out this truck and then we can relax a little.” I said as I opened the door and stepped out onto a running board. I pulled the canvas back and yelled, “Silverwolf, Walsh is now a Sergeant. We'll stop in the few minutes and refill the radiator with water.
“Not a problem, sir. We'll be ready and there are two metal buckets filled with sand back here, being used as as butt-cans, that should work fine.”
We no sooner stopped the big deuce and half, and I had security established, than Scott neared with a Russian radio in his hands. “They want to know where we are, sir.”
“Tell them when the partisans attacked we drove off the road and into the woods. Hell, they can see that much from the air. Tell them we'll circle around and return to Edwards as soon as we can.”
“I'll try but they may want us to stop in some field and wait for them.”
“Stall them, Scott, and do the best you can.”
“Yes, sir.”
Walsh opened the hood and then said, “Everyone move back. I'm going to loosen the radiator cap and the damned thing might fly into the air. If it does, scalding water will fly in all directions.” He gave the cap a half twist and steam instantly shot into the air, from around the still in place cap. As I listened to the hiss of the steam, I noticed Silverwolf returning from the stream with both buckets filled with water. He sat them on the ground by the front bumper and said, “Plenty of water in the creek, so that's no problem.”
“I'm not sure how well I fooled the Russians, but I know I've stalled them for a bit. They wanted the name of the truck driver, so I gave them my Russian name, Ivan Bulgakov. It's a somewhat common Russian name. When they said I wasn't listed on the manifest as a driver, I told them the normal driver got sick and I was unlucky enough to get selected.”
“Good,” I replied.
“But, once they call Jackson and learn there is no driver by that name assigned to the unit, they'll know I'm a Russian speaking American. Eventually, they'll come for us and this truck.”
“That'll have to work then and we'll worry about the Russians later, after this truck dies.”
Taking a rag in hand, Walsh removed the cap and water bubbled up and over the radiator. In just a few seconds it receded but the bubbling was still clearly heard. Water was slowly added, which stopped the gurgling and within a few short minutes we were once again moving down the logging road, being jarred in all directions inside the blood-stained cab.
CHAPTER 10
A week later, Senior Sergeant Morozov was up and moving around now, his injury painful, but not overly so. He kept a full flask of vodka on his person at all times, but used it only when his pain grew to be too much for him. He was standing at attention during a staff meeting as Colonel Ivanov pinned a couple of medals on him and promoted him to the rank of Master Sergeant, back dated to the day of his unit's annihilation by the American partisans. While the medals meant little to him, the promotion would result in his retirement pay jumping up considerably.
“Gentlemen, you see standing before you a true hero of Mother Russia. As the citation I read stated this brave man, then Senior Sergeant Morozov, tried very hard to return his leader to base alive, but was unable to do so, and his efforts were in vain. Lieutenant Smirnov was later killed. Good men like this man are hard to find and we need many more like him. Gentlemen, our newest Master Sergeant.”
From the back of the room, when everyone applauded, Master Sergeant Fedorovo gave a loud whistle. He then broke into a big smile. By God, he deserves higher ranking medals, but the promotion is a good thing too, he thought as he waited for the ceremony to end. He had a bottle of vodka back in his room, just waiting for two
Master Sergeants to celebrate.
As the Colonel moved toward the door, Fedorovo yelled from the very pit of his stomach, “Teeen-huuut!”
Everyone in the room stood at attention and once the Colonel was gone, they lined up to shake hands with the units newest Master Sergeant.
Soon, since it was early evening, they were in Fedorovo's quarters, with Morozov sitting in the lone chair and the Master Sergeant seated on his bed. The quart bottle of vodka was open and both men held a glass of the clear alcohol in their hands.
“So, when do they say you can come back to work?”
“They have said nothing to me at all, but I am not to return to even limited duty without the doctor's approval.”
“You, Taras, are Master Sergeant now, and can do what the hell you want to do. However, with that said, only an order or an emergency should make you return to duty. You will soon retire and you do not want to live in pain from not following some doctor's orders. Also, you will only go into the field when something serious comes up, so most of your time now will be much safer than at any point of your career to date.”
“What am I to do until released for duty?”
“Wait for me to find you a spot first. I know you want to run a combat unit, and right now all are full, but some are run by Senior Sergeants, and I will not give you a problem position either. I will try my best to give you a good unit.”
“Thanks, Stas.” He poured them both another drink.
“Taras, let us get you back in shape and healthy, and then I will find a good spot for you. Only about 2% of all enlisted become Senior Sergeants, and only 1% of the total enlisted force become a Master Sergeant. You currently have more power and authority than most officers, but keep in mind, you have a responsibility to use both carefully and properly.”
Throwing his drink back, Morozov stood and said, “I need to get some sleep. The drink and my pain pills make me tired.”
“Well, welcome to the world of a Master Sergeant, and I am proud of you. Let me walk with you to your new quarters, because I need to check my mail.”
They stepped outside and it was cold, but both turned to see a Black Shark helicopter raising into the air. As they watched something flew from the grasses around the base and struck the aircraft, which exploded into a huge ball of flames.
“My God did you se—” Morozov started to say when a black dot instantly appeared on the bridge of his nose and the back of his head exploded, sending crimson blood and shards of bone flying out behind him. Before he struck the ground another bullet entered his chest and blew a large chunk of his spine out his back.
“Sniper!” Master Sergeant Fedorovo yelled and a quick glance confirmed his friend was dead.
Sirens began to cry their loud warbling warning to all on the base, but for Morozov, they were too late. His mangled body lay on the ground in a growing pool of blood, his system almost completely shutdown, except for his right index finger, which kept twitching.
The Master Sergeant stood and then ran a zig-zag course for headquarters to see if they were under a full scale attack or just a probe. Tracer rounds, some were red, orange, green, and violet, zipped low overhead. They flew through the air in a way Fedorovo found pretty, but he knew they were as deadly as hell.
Near the door of the headquarters building he found a dead guard, struck in the head by something that had taken half his skull away. He moved inside and discovered absolute chaos. Men and women were hustling around and some were even running with written orders in their hands.
He entered the combat control center and found phones ringing and orders being shouted as Colonel Ivanov stood chain smoking. He watched as the man rubbed one cigarette out and lighted another. This is no probe, he thought as he moved to the Commander.
“Master Sergeant Fedorovo, I need you to move near the fence at the Gulag! Colonel Kuznetsov reports the partisans have breached the fences with explosives, and most of his prisoners are gone or dead. Then check all of our other positions and help out where you can.”
“Yes, sir!” he replied and then moved from the building. Outside the door he stripped the dead soldier of his Bison sub-machine gun, ammunition, grenades and other needed gear. He stayed on the main road, but jogged as he moved. Finally, a large flatbed truck zoomed by him at a high rate of speed, only to be struck by a rocket propelled grenade. It exploded with a huge fireball and screams were heard for a minute or so coming from the cab. As he ran past the truck, he could see three dead bodies sitting in the flaming seat, all burned black, and unmoving.
The run to the gulag wasn't far, and when he arrived, partisans were moving all over the compound and Russian bodies covered the ground. Angry that the Base Commander had stripped the gulag of men for his upcoming gas attack and left a minimal number of guards, the Master Sergeant ran to a Russian Captain with a radio man. Jumping in the hole, Fedorovo yelled to be heard over the gunfire, “Give me the damned radio!”
When the radio man looked at the Captain for approval, the officer took a round through his chest that splattered blood on everyone behind him. He collapsed unmoving to the bottom of the hole. The radio man handed the radio to the Master Sergeant.
“Base operations! I need anything you have in the air to drop what it is carrying on the gulag and do it now. Repeat, the gulag has been overrun, so hit it with what ever is in the air.”
“Stas, is that you? This is Petov, so best of luck, my friend. On the way, but get your head down.”
The Master Sergeant stood and screamed, “Get down, now!”
Two fast moving jets began an even, slow dive toward their target and at the bottom of their dives, they each released two canisters of napalm. The containers tumbled through the air, with one striking the prisoner barracks and the others in a large field. All of the canisters erupted into huge fireballs and waves of the burning liquid flew high and then dropped on those running from the flames. Soon, men and women, along with children, could be heard screaming pitifully as they stumbled around inside the fire.
From just outside the gulag wire, a missile was launched as the jets pulled up and the lead aircraft, flying too low to take any serious avoidance maneuvers took the missile right up his exhaust pipe and exploded into a huge fireball in the sky. The pilot ejected at the last second, but as he descended in his parachute, the nylon in his parachute canopy was soon burning. Between the fireball and the napalm, the Master Sergeant knew one had ignited the material. He watched in morbid fascination, as the chute began to burn and a few seconds later the pilot fell like a rock to his death.
Two Russian soldiers, in foxholes nearest the gulag, stood and began stumbling around fully engulfed in flames, their movements almost comical, if not for their piercing screams of anguish. Fedorovo stood and sent a burst from his Bison into both men. They fell unmoving.
The aircraft wreckage began to land on parts of the gulag and the Master Sergeant watched as a piece of a wing landed, along with a wheel. It rained metal for a few minutes and glancing up, he spotted the remaining jet high up.
The radio came alive, “Stas, are you still there?”
“I am here, Petov; have the next attack with guns or missiles about fifty meters from the far fence on the south side.”
“Be advised the partisans have surface to air shoulder-fired missiles. The next strike will be low and fast. The pilot states he will be moving from your left to right, near supersonic speeds, so bury your asses in your holes. He will make one pass, using his Gatling gun and then will return to base to refuel and rearm. Copy?”
“He had better hurry, or the gulag will be under new management in about ten minutes.”
“He is coming in hot and ready now!”
“Copy and out.” Standing amid the flying bullets, the Master Sergeant screamed, “Get down now!”
Suddenly, there came a sound like a long giant zipper was being jerked down and clumps of dirt, sticks and rocks, flew twenty feet in the air. Partisans screamed as body parts were blown from torsos
and a fine red mist mixed with rolling dust rose to the sky. Bodies jerked and danced as the impact of bullets threw each partisan in many different awkward directions, all at the same time. Fedorovo looked over the edge of his hole and saw a human head fly high in the air.
This time there was no missile fired and the Master Sergeant thought it was because the aircraft had flown by too quickly. A Russian machine-gun crew opened up and row after row of partisans were struck. The gunner was good, too, because his tat-tat-tat was limited to just a few seconds on the trigger. Long bursts would soon heat a barrel to the point bullets would fly in all directions.
Glancing down the slight hill, the Master Sergeant saw a huge crowd of partisans moving toward him and his men. It does not look good, he thought as he picked up the radio and asked, “Petov, are you still there?”
“I am here.”
“I need help, my friend, and now; if you have anything, send it to me. I estimate maybe a thousand partisans about fifty meters from the gulag fence line.”
“Let me check I what I have in the air.”
“For God's sake, hurry!”
A minute passed and then Petov said, “I have two Black Sharks that will be over your position shortly. They will make a number of passes from left to right using machine-guns and missiles. One has you visually right now, so get your heads down!”
“Down!” Fedorovo screamed and few seconds later he heard the guns on the Black Shark firing, screams from the dying and injured, and the high pitched whine of the helicopters turbine engines. The helicopter made two more passes and then flew off to rearm and refuel. The second aircraft arrived seconds later.
“Stay down!” the Master Sergeant yelled once more as he watched the helicopter fly overhead and line up for a pass on the partisans.
Seconds later, four loud explosions were heard, along with distant screams, and when he peeked over the edge of his foxhole, he saw nothing but four clouds of dust. The helicopter was seen lining up for another pass, when a rocket zoomed from ground level, struck the aircraft hard near the engine and it began to auto-rotate to the ground in flames from the cockpit back. The helicopter landed hard on its side, near the Russians forces, and a squad burst from the trenches in an effort to save the pilots. One man was pulled from the wreckage and another exited the co-pilots compartment in flames. He stumbled a few feet and then fell to his knees. Seconds later he fell to his side, dead. Of the ten who ran forward to rescue the pilots, six, including the injured pilot returned alive.